The whole week I try to get up the nerve to say something to her again, but I keep convincing myself that the moment is not quite right. Either there are too many people around, or she's scowling particularly fiercely that day, or my shoelaces are untied or whatever. There's always an excuse. Being a coward is becoming my fulltime job, which is quite exhausting considering how taxing my real job has been lately. Father hasn't been feeling well, the doctors say it's his heart and he's supposed to take it easy. My oldest brother Bannock and I have been taking on as many extra shifts as possible to try and ease the burden, but father keeps inventing pretexts for slipping into the bakery and kneading out a couple of loaves of marble rye or tempering chocolate for pastries. A baker belongs in the kitchen, he says when we catch him and chase him out with the rolling pin.

Dad's a gentle soul, always sneaking butter cookies to the little Seam kids with their dirty noses pressed up longingly against the bakery window, and offering Katniss and Gale excellent trades on fresh game. When mother catches him there's hell to pay, but dad seems to be growing bolder as he ages, as if he's hoping to make amends for all the times he never protected us kids from her rages when we were young. Sometimes I think of the times I spent hiding in the back of the pantry behind the barrels of apples nursing a bloody nose and crying silently into old burlap flour sacks and I'm so mad at him I could scream. Why didn't he do anything to stop her? But the fact is that father isn't meant for conflict—it's not in his nature. I guess he did the best he could.

Speaking of dad…

"You're supposed to be resting old man," sighs Bannock, smacking the cookie cutter out of dad's hand for the third time this morning.

"I know, I know, I just don't like seeing you two working so hard. Wanted things to be different for you boys than it was for me. You know my father used to have this rule—"

"Five loaves before the cock crows," chant Bannock and me together, rolling our eyes at dad. How many times have we heard that one before?

"Yeah, yeah, we know. But we've really got it, ok dad? Besides, I can't miss my finger workout, can I?" I extract my hands from the lump of dough I'm kneading and flex my fingers dramatically. "Don't want any flabby thumbs."

Usually dad is quick to laugh, but today he just frowns at my joke, his broad shoulders slumped, a flicker of sadness in his cornflower blue eyes. I continue to knead the sourdough—not too much, just enough to release the gluten—just like dad taught me, and a few minutes later we hear mom calling us to breakfast. After slipping the last batch of croissants into the oven, we pad up the stairs to our cramped kitchen. Aldo, my middle brother, is already seated at the table and stuffing himself with stale toast slathered in marmalade.

"Guess you're hungry from all your hard work this morning, huh Al," says Bannock ironically, sinking into a wicker-backed chair that looks too spindly to support his mass. Bannock is a few years older than me and is built like a tank.

Aldo rolls his eyes and chews his food more loudly in defiance. He knows he'll get away with missing his shift in the bakery. He's mother's favorite.

"Aldo needs his sleep," sniffs mother. "I can't have all my sons slaving away like Seam."

Mother is from old money and before she married my father she had never worked a day in her life. Gran and grandpa live in an enormous, imposing manor on the far edge of town where they host lavish parties that draw flocks of bejeweled, oddly-clothed Capitol people. Not the top echelon of society, says my mother, they never deign to show their faces in District 12, but still, they are better society than the average Merchant. Gran has a veritable platoon of Seam servants who she rules with an iron fist. I imagine that most of them would rather gnaw off their own arms than remain in her employ, but the thought of the empty stomachs of loved ones at home makes them endure it. Working for Gran is still probably better than going down in the mines, which is the only other career option for Seam in District 12.

I look at Aldo with his light blond, almost white, hair and his squinty blue eyes. Unlike Bannock and me who are broad shouldered but lean, he is shorter and stockier, with arms that seem just a little too long for his body. He looks just like mother and has unfortunately inherited all of her best qualities as well: a nasty temper, penchant for gossip, and disdainful, superior attitude. Bannock and I are like dad. I've never heard Bannock say anything truly unkind in his life, the most he'll ever do is gently rib Aldo, and Al certainly deserves worse. Since I've always been mother's scapegoat (she never wanted a third son), it was always Bannock who came to my rescue when she was having one of her days. I know my oldest brother took quite a few blows for me over the years and there's a large, ridged burn scar on his left forearm that he swears is from trying to take something out of the Dutch oven without the wooden peel, but I remember how mother looked that day… wild and angry and raging.

Delly Cartwright says Aldo is mean because he's jealous, and maybe she is right. Bannock and I have never had trouble making friends, we smile easily, crack jokes with aplomb, and we're athletic to boot. Al on the other hand is morose and condescending and has never showed any aptitude for wrestling or any other sport for that matter. His social circle is mostly limited to Dirk Maddof and Blyth Anderson, two weak-willed elitists from old money, who follow Aldo around waiting for instructions on how to be as aloof as possible.

"Peeta," comes my mother's voice from across the table. "Don't slouch like that at the table. Gran's Fall Formal is coming up and I can't have you embarrassing me in front of the company."

I slide up in my chair so that my back is ramrod straight and try not to glare. The Fall Formal—I had almost forgotten—a never-ending evening of frivolous conversation and simpering formalities with a group of people with more hair product than brains. And I know what mother will say next. Here we go in three…two…

"Dorna will be there you know."

One. There it is.

"Don't look at me like that young man! You would do well not to scoff at such an excellent match. Think of what her family's connections could do for you!" she says shrilly.

You mean do for you, I think to myself. I know mother is imagining the boost in her social standing that me becoming attached to Dorna would lend her. I hastily stuff the last crust of bread in my mouth and move as if to leave the table, but mother is not finished.

"Sit down, you ungrateful boy! Don't you know to listen when I'm speaking to you? I expect to see you with her at the Formal—at least three dances—do you understand me? I lost my chances at a good marriage connection and I will not permit you to do the same."

My father shifts uncomfortably in his too-small chair. It's an obvious dig at him. Mother was set to marry Macon Dreer, the wealthy son of the District Bank empire, but he ran off with the florist's daughter at the last moment and mother had to settle on her backup. Of course, she's not the only one who settled. Dad had his eye on Otilia Swift… soon to be Otilia Everdeen.

Otilia was Seam. Haven't I said before that my father and I are a lot alike? Only I'm not going to make the same mistake he did. I'm not going to seal myself into a loveless marriage because the Capitol thinks it can dictate who I can and cannot associate with.

Mother eventually finishes ranting about my blatant disregard for proper Merchant etiquette and I am allowed to get ready for school. I hurriedly change my clothes, brush my teeth and bound down the stairs, almost slamming into Bannock in my rush. have discovered that if I leave the house at exactly 7:52 I almost always cross paths with Katniss near the Victory Square. Perhaps this makes me a stalker. Yes, I suppose this behavior is basically the dictionary definition of stalking. Honestly, I try not to think about it.

"Woah, little brother! Where's the fire?" says Bannock.

"Sorry, I just don't want to be late for school, you know?" I apologize.

Bannock chuckles. "Sure, you don't want to be late for school. Well, I think I saw school and her darling little sister pass by when I took out the trash…so you might want to hurry." He gives me a cheeky grin and I blanche.

"Bannock, I—she—please don't tell mom!" I splutter.

"Relax kid, I like Braids. She's got spunk. You better watch out though, I'd imagine girls like her eat softies like you for breakfast."

I sigh in relief at Bannock's words. Maybe I should have confided in him sooner.

Bannock gives me a sad little smile. I know he thinks I'm setting myself up for heartbreak. "Now get out of here before mom finds you and we have to listen to another description of Dorna's bank account!"

I finally catch up to Katniss by the butcher's shop. Her sister Primrose is skipping along in front of her chattering animatedly and to my chagrin Katniss' hunting partner Gale is on her left. People say they're together, but I'm not so sure it's true. I can tell by his body language that maybe he wishes it were true. Katniss, however, looks as aloof as ever and if she can sense his interest in her as more than a friend she doesn't let on. She smiles at him from time to time though. It's a small, half smile, just a quirk of the lips really, but I would give anything to be able to elicit that look from her.

I suddenly see Katniss stiffen as if her hunter's instincts have alerted her to a distant threat and she whirls around. She must have felt my eyes on her! I quickly avert my gaze, trying to feign acute interest in the crumbling concrete wall that surrounds the school, but I know she's caught me looking again because her quirky little smile fades into a scowl and she pulls a protective arm around her little sister. I'm so stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I need to talk to her, really talk to her. And soon, because if Katniss weren't Seam, she would probably have a restraining order by now.

After school I have wrestling practice and I stay late at the gym trying to get in as much training as possible before the big match. With the admonition not to work myself too hard, Anselm left about half an hour ago, so I'm the last one in the locker room. I throw my towel into the laundry and shake the wet hair out of my eyes before heading out into the empty corridor, feeling refreshed from the workout. I'm in such a good mood that I'm even whistling a bit to myself when I suddenly see her braid swing around the corner. Before I can even register what is happening, Katniss has grabbed me by the front of my shirt and slammed me up against the locker with surprising force for someone of such slight stature. "Why are you always following me around—staring at me?" she spits, her face inches from my own.

For the first time in my life I feel utterly tongue-tied. "I—I didn't, um—" I bluster feeling simultaneously exhilarated and terrified by her close proximity.

"Aw, quit your stuttering. I know why. You think I'm easy, don't you Mellark. You Merchant boys are all the same," she accuses, narrowing her eyes at me. "You think I just spread my legs for anybody behind the slag heap, huh?" The unbidden blush that creeps up her cheeks is enough to confirm how absurd a scenario that really is. I feel my face burning with embarrassment and shame. Is this really what she really thinks of me? "I can support my family without… that, so—so just forget about it! Ok?"

Her words sting, but not as much as the disgusted look she gives me as she releases my collar from her grip, the same look she might give to something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of her shoe. I don't blame her for assuming the worst about me, after all, it's a common practice for lusty teenage Merchants to have their way with Seam girls who are desperate to put a crust of bread on the table, but it hurts all the same.

"Katniss, I…" I begin again, trying to think of a way to set things straight with her, but I stop when I notice the color draining from her face. There is a group of giggling girls rounding the corner and it appears as though Katniss is just now realizing the severity of what she has just done—attacked a Merchant in a public place. She looks at me with wild, round eyes and for the first time I can remember, she looks truly scared.

"Please don't tell anyone," she whispers, looking like a frightened rabbit. It's unnerving to see her like this—almost like rock has suddenly transformed into glass, fragile and transparent—but in a strange way I'm relieved. So she is human after all…

"Of course not," I breathe, willing my words to convey how I really feel. I would never do anything to hurt you. The giggling grows louder as the girls draw nearer and I realize that this may be my only chance. Say something you coward! I tell myself.

One of the girls drops her pencil case and with an additional shriek of laughter I hear the gang of them bend down to retrieve its scattered contents.

It's now or never. Do it. Do it!

"Will you just…meet me tomorrow after school? Behind the old oak tree?" I finally blurt out.

Katniss' eyes widen in surprise and then narrow suspiciously.

"I just want to talk," I assure her. "Please?" I'm trying so hard not to beg.

Her eyes dart over to the approaching Merchant girls and I can tell she feels trapped. I feel terrible for forcing her hand like this, but what choice do I have? If I'm ever going to get to know this girl at all I need to talk her. I have a way with words, or so people tell me, and I'm pinning all my hopes on that fact. Katniss glares at me in a way that makes it perfectly clear that she is not happy about this arrangement, but she nods curtly before disappearing from my side like wind through the grass.

Sighing heavily I turn around and look at the two doorways in front of me. In bold black lettering one is marked "Seam," the other "Merchant." With shame weighing down on me like a one hundred pound sack of flour, I hesitate for just a moment before exiting through the Seam door.

I check my watch again. 3:15. I've been waiting for 20 minutes now and I don't see Katniss anywhere. It was stupid to get my hopes up anyway, I mean, I practically forced her into this meeting after all. It's pretty obvious that she doesn't really want to talk to me, I think sulkily, kicking a stone through the scraggly grass underneath the oak tree.

And then, just as I'm about to give up and go home, a high, clear voice chimes in from above my head, "What do you want?"

"Gah!" I cry, performing a startled sort of pirouette, which would probably be quite comical if were I not so mortified. My eyes shoot up into the tree branches and there she is, perched comfortably on a low hanging bough, the faintest trace of a smirk etched on her features. "You scared me!" I gasp, running a hand through my hair embarrassedly. "How long have you been up there?"

She shrugs noncommittally.

I decide to make a joke to defuse the tension. "I guess you saw my impressive acrobatic feat just then when you scared the bejeezus out of me. Think I should join the ballet?"

The awkward silence that follows strangles the humor with its bare hands. I suppose jokes are out then, and this make me feel vulnerable because that eliminates half my bag of tricks. Katniss just stares at me from her roost like she's stalking a field mouse and hasn't yet decided whether to pummel it or not. The pale green light filtering down through the leaves causes shadows to dance across her face when the wind blows, and my breath catches in my throat. She is so beautiful. Beautiful, and so goddamn intimidating.

"What are you doing up there anyway?" I ask. How in Panem can she stand still like that, I wonder. I swear she hasn't even blinked once yet.

"Watching," says Katniss evasively. I rub the back of my neck nervously. "What do you want," she repeats.

I stuff my hands into my pockets and try hard not to feel as if I'm on trial. "Well, I just…" I hesitate and then launch into the speech I had prepared, have had prepared for years. "I think you're interesting and I wanted to talk to you," I begin, grinning sheepishly into the tree. "Maybe we—"

Katniss cuts me off abruptly. "Let's just cut to the chase. I don't have time for this. Look, Mr. Mellark sir," she says in a clipped, business-like tone, emphasizing the formal mode of address that Seam citizens are expected to use with Merchants. "I can offer you a large share of venison for the bread."

I am completely and utterly confused. "Katniss, wha—?"

"That should more than cover the expense plus interest," she continues doggedly. "You don't think it's fair?"

"No. I mean—I don't know! What in the world are you talking about?"

"I can have it to you by the end of the week if necessary," she states, dodging my question again.

"Have what to me by the end of the week?" I ask exasperatedly. It's like Katniss and I are having two completely different conversations.

Katniss gives me a look like she is trying to explain something to an incorrigible child. "The venison. For… the bread you gave me." Her cheeks color for some reason on that last line.

We stare at each other for a fraction of a second before understanding finally dawns me and I recognize her blush as a mark of shame. She thinks I want her to pay me for that bread I gave her all those years ago. I almost laugh because the situation is so absurd, but I know that wounding Katniss' pride is just about the worst move I could make right now.

"That's what you're going on about? You don't owe me anything Katniss."

She cocks her head to the side as if she still doesn't quite believe me and I find that I'm developing a rather severe crick in my neck from peering up into the tree branches. How can she be this thickheaded!

"Look, would you just come down already?" I finally shout.

Katniss scowls at me, but apparently decides I'm not a threat because she swings off her branch, dangling for a second by her fingertips, and then drops cat-like to the ground. She folds her arms protectively across her chest.

"Thank you," I say emphatically. "Now will you listen to me for a second?"

She nods sullenly.

"I just want to get to know you, ok?"

Her eyes widen—whether in shock or disbelief I can't tell.

"I'm Seam," she posits, once again adopting the tone of voice used with uncomprehending children.

"I know that, and I don't care."

Silence.

"Well?" I prod, feeling my resolve dwindling at her unresponsiveness. I'm usually a great communicator, but coaxing Katniss into a dialogue feels like trying to start a fire with wet matches.

"What do you mean 'get to know me?'' Katniss asks, and the way she knits her eyebrows together and scrunches up her nose in suspicion is so adorable that I forget how frustrating this conversation has become.

I let out a little laugh and shake my head at her. She is obviously severely dyslexic when it comes to reading social cues. "I don't know …well, for example, what's your favorite color?"

She pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs as though this is a colossal waste of her time. "Green," she says petulantly.

"Mine's orange," I say with a grin. "See, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

More scowling. And then…a surprise.

"Orange like the tile in the cafeteria?" she demands.

I raise my eyebrows. If I'm not mistaken, Katniss just continued the conversation without my prodding. Small victories, Peeta, small victories.

"No, not so bright. Or so horrible," I add. "More muted, like the sunset."

"Oh." She rocks up and down on the balls of her feet as if she's about to spring off a diving board. "I really have to go now…my sister's waiting for me."

"Right, of course!" How could I have forgotten about Prim? "How about this? How about I'll ask you one question a day, just one, that's it, I swear," I say hurriedly, hardly daring to breathe as she mulls over my proposition. She is chewing the corner of lip like she does when she's thinking hard about something.

"Ok," she says finally. Her tone is begrudging, but her expression is unreadable.

"So you allow it?"

"I'll allow it."

After she leaves it takes me about ten minutes before I can wipe the dumb grin off my face and make my feet move towards home. The wind picks up and I'm feeling so buoyant that I'm surprised I don't blow away on a gust of autumn air.